


in all the wrong places

by obscuriaal



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Drunken Confessions, Explicit Language, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-season 7, Season 8, Sexual Frustration, because jaime/bronn is canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-02-23 05:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscuriaal/pseuds/obscuriaal
Summary: Expelled from Kings Landing by his own son, his life's work in tatters, Jaime thinks he deserves a goddamn drink. It does not make him feel any better.





	1. Chapter 1

By the time Bronn found himself tasked with accompanying the recently dismissed former captain of the Kingsguard to Riverrun, he had spent enough time with Jaime Lannister to be able to see right through his facade of focus and purpose. Not, it had to be said, that the Kingslayer was all that good at masking his true emotions, even to strangers. 

 

This was particularly true of the man when he was four flagons deep into a cask of ale, and Jaime was showing little sign of slowing down. “Another,” he grunted, absently pushing his flagon across the bar, where it was swiftly picked up and filled by the barkeep. In Bronn’s experience, innkeepers were rarely as willing and he would dare say _eager_ to let their customers build up a tab, but he’d seen the man’s eyes flick over that _ridiculous_ gold hand when Jaime had first sat down, and suspected it had everything to do with that tired old Lannister saying. It also made Bronn doubt the man would cut Jaime off any time soon, and that meant that the job fell to him.

 

He knocked Jaime’s shoulder with his own, causing ale to slop over side of the flagon and drip down onto the man’s leg, and the fact that Jaime did not complain told Bronn that he was already further gone than he ought to have let him become. They were no longer in Kings Landing after all, and while the Lannisters might have friendly forces in this region, Bronn didn’t think there was a place in the Seven Kingdoms where Jaime Lannister did not have an enemy. And he was hardly being _subtle_ about his identity this evening. 

 

“Finish that, when I'm taking you to yer bloody room,” he told him, gruffly, and cast a glance around the crowded inn for any signs they might run into trouble. There had been a time when only the most brainless of fools would even consider making a move against Ser Jaime Lannister, Captain of the Kingsguard, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, the Kingslayer, but Bronn hadn’t known him then. The Jaime that he knew was not the Jaime whose name had been written into the Book of Brothers, and word was starting to get out. And an intoxicated knight with one hand would be an attractive target to any of the opportunists that frequented places lacking repute like this- Bronn had been one of those people, he knew.

 

Jaime wasn’t thinking about those things though- he didn’t at the best of times, but right now he lacked even the capacity. He raised the ale to his lips and sipped a tiny amount, with a quick little glance at Bronn to make sure the sellsword saw what he was doing. There was a slur to his speech. “I’ve been putting myself to bed since I outgrew my septa’s care, Bronn. I can manage it now.”

 

In the time that Bronn had known him, Bronn had rarely seen Jaime drink, let alone drunk, preferring to keep his senses sharp. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had changed his mind this time; Jaime hadn’t been himself since he’d been all but thrown from Kings Landing on the orders of the boy king, his own nephew or more if the rumours were to be believed, but the man had not picked a good time or a place to drown his sorrows.

 

“Right,” he scoffed. “Doubt you could even manage the stairs yourself, ya cunt, and yer not gonna be one of these lot’s lucky pay day until _I_ get paid. Come on.” 

 

Bronn snatched the ale from Jaime’s hand and drained it himself in a few gulps before dragging Jaime off his chair and approximately to his feet. Jaime swayed, and Bronn shoved an arm under his shoulders to stop him from becoming acquainted with the tavern’s stained floor. “I’m _fine_ ,” came the inevitable whine, but Bronn roundly ignored it, and made short work of dragging Jaime up the stairs. And to every eye that turned to the two of them like vultures waiting for their prey to falter, he made sure the exposed blades of his daggers caught the flickering candlelight.

 

“I told you, I’m _fine,_ Bronn, and I’m not _done_ \- when did your delusions of grandeur become so blinding that you started to think it appropriate for a jumped-up sellsword to give orders? To _me_?” Jaime had tugged himself free of his grasp and stumbled into the rented room, feet scuffing on the rough floor boards as he nearly lost his balance. 

 

Bronn did not rise to Jaime’s insult- he'd been doing this far too long to let him get under his skin so easily. He settled himself against the door to make it quite clear that Jaime would _not_ be returning to the bar to continue drowning his sorrows, crossing his arms over his chest with an imperious expression as he watched Jaime clumsily start to undo his jacket . The lack of reaction from him failed to starve the conversation, through, and the man carried on with scarcely a break.

 

“If I want to drink, I’ll drink. I’ve _earned_ that right, I’ve more than fucking earned it, I’ve given _everything_ to this _fucking_ -” Jaime had slipped his jacket off one shoulder but now was confronted with a task that presented a challenge to his dexterity at the best of times, and now he was not quite up to it. The sleeve snagged on the binding of his hand, and at another time Jaime might have paused to look at and fix the problem, but now he just tugged and huffed and finally simply tore the metal appendage from his wrist and sent it flying across the room with a cry, and a sharp intake of breath that could easily have been the precursor to a sob. It marked the wood, and thudded solidly on the ground, and Bronn decided that he wasn’t going to just let Jaime work this one out of his system.

 

The room wasn’t large, and Bronn crossed it in a couple of strides, grabbing Jaime hard by the shoulders and pushing him backwards onto the bed before he did more damage. 

 

The backs of Jaime’s knees hit the bed hard and he all but fell backwards onto the mattress, the alcohol he’d consumed doing little to help with his disorientation. His left hand clutched at the covers for purchase and he pulled his right into his lap, feeling vulnerable and incomplete now that the moment had passed. The hand truly did little to combat those ever-present feelings, useless as it was for everything except its carat value, and even that wasn’t as high as the thing purported itself to be to the untrained onlooker.

 

The bed dipped down beside him as Bronn took a seat, but Jaime didn’t look at him until he found his arm indelicately grabbed, and then saw that the sellsword had retrieved the golden hand, which still shone like the day he’d got it. He’d told Cersei he’d have more use for a _hook_ , at least with that he might have been able to do things with it, but as usual, his choices were ignored. He pulled at Bronn’s grasp and shook his head. “Don’t. It’s _stupid_ , it’s just fucking _pointless_ ,” he protested, words muddling, but Bronn’s grip was stronger than his weak attempts to fight.

 

“Don’t be an idiot, let me fuckin’ help you.” 

 

His tone brooked no argument, so Jaime didn’t attempt it; he stared down at the leather binding of the hand with a hollow expression, the anger from mere moments ago fading as quick as it had come to that gnawing emptiness Jaime had been trying to ignore from the moment he’d tugged his white cloak from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor of the throne room. He’d donned that cloak at sixteen, full of dreams and ambitions that were dashed before the Mad King before the year was out, and had spend his life since then trying to repair the damage to his honour and his legacy, and all he had to show for it was this gods be damned piece of _jewellery_ that would be more at home on Cersei’s wrist than his own. 

 

And he could not quiet his thoughts; his little trick of going away inside could hardly work when all his torments were of his own mind, and there was no separating the good and safe from everything he wanted to hide from when he could scarcely think straight. He clutched at Bronn’s hand, busy with the lacing, and didn’t hear his question until he had repeated it for a second time, and shook his head to confirm that no, the hand was not too tight. It was more comfortable than it had been the first time, and no one had asked him then- not that it _mattered_.

 

“Bronn,” he breathed, still holding onto Bronn’s hand- or wrist, he hadn’t cared but for to have an anchor- and didn’t care to wonder if there was a conclusion to that sentence. He focussed on the solid mass of the sellsword’s shoulder as he leaned on it with increasingly little care for how close he was getting, the warmth of another body next to his. It was so seldom that Jaime could be close to another human being like this, with the exception of Cersei, but that was on her terms and her terms alone. When he’d been a fresh faced recruit to the guard, drunk on wine now that his father was not in sight to moderate him, he'd sat like this with Ser Arthur Dayne while the Sword of the Morning chuckled at him for how quickly the wine had gone to his head. He’d called Jaime ‘brother’ and Jaime had felt his chest swell with pride that he might ever be considered on the same plane as a great knight like Ser Arthur.

 

He’d been a boy then, or as good as, and basking in the glow of a fierce warrior was enough of a joy in itself that it had been far too late before Jaime realised that his attachment to Ser Arthur, and a few of the others, went a little beyond the brotherly bond that he had prepared himself for. And wasn’t that just Jaime to a tee, he’d often thought bitterly; seeking affection in all of the wrong places.

 

It never felt like the wrong place in those lonely moments, though.

 

His hand sneaked up Bronn’s arm, and over to his chest, and Bronn looked as though he might be about to say something, so Jaime put a stop to any argument with his lips, surging up to meet him and twisting his hand into his shirt. The sellsword’s stubble was rough on his chin and his mouth moved in time for the barest of moments before Jaime found himself kissing air with Bronn’s hand hard on his shoulder, holding him just out of reach.

 

“You’re fucked, Jaime,” he told him, and truthfully Jaime was a little too far gone to be able to read the expression on Bronn’s face properly. His mouth was a little downturned, brow furrowed, but his eyes flickered to Jaime’s lips.

 

“Not _yet_ , I’m not.” He tried to close the distance between them again, chasing that heady high that would allow him to check out of his current reality and all the problems that came along with it, but he met the resistance of Bronn’s hand and could not overcome it. “Bronn, come on, just tonight.”

 

Bronn did not relax his grip, far too practised in the art of not giving Jaime Lannister what he wanted just because he asked. It was perfectly clear that the man was not in the right state of mind to be doing anything like what he intended, not physically and certainly not mentally. Bronn wasn’t about to pretend he had never bedded a person who’d consumed a thimbleful of wine, but he wasn’t in the business of being anybody’s morning after regret. Especially not when they’d been on the verge of tears not a moment before.

 

“I’m not gonna help you do something stupid that you’re gonna blame me for tomorrow, alright? You gotta sleep this off.” All of this; the alcohol, and everything else that was going on in the man’s head.

 

Hurt flooded his face, and his grip on the other man’s shirt twisted. His words slurred, indignation and hurt overlapping. “Do you not want me?” Jaime’s eyes were on his golden hand, the neat lacing that Bronn now understood Jaime couldn’t even tie or undo himself, and its cold, gleaming fingers. He was easy to read; his eyes shined brighter when he was in pain.

 

“I didn’t say that,” Bronn countered.

 

As though that were an invitation, Jaime let go of Bronn’s shirt and reached down to cup the other man’s crotch through his trousers, applying pressure just so. “Then _have_ me; I’m not gonna _blame_ you tomorrow, I want it.” 

 

There was far less gentleness when Bronn grabbed his wrist this time, jerking his hand away from that intimate place and holding it between the two of them. With his other hand, he grabbed Jaime’s face by the chin to make the trumped up drunk look him in the eye. 

 

“You don’t know what you want, Jaime. For how much you fuckin’ highborns spend on wine, you can’t hold your damn drink.”

 

Jaime pulled his head back from the sellsword’s hand, pink spots appearing at his cheekbones, and he made to pull himself to his feet. “I told you, I’m fine. Let go of me; I’ll find someone who _wants_ me.” His tone suggested the knight- was that former now, too?- didn’t think it would be particularly hard, and Bronn suspected he was right.

 

He wasn’t about to let the facts be proven either way. He didn’t release his grip, and grabbed the waistband of Jaime’s breeches to pull him back down the moment the other man rose an inch from the bed. “You’re not going anywhere in the state you’re in, Jaime. Practically carried your ass up the stairs and I’m not about to do it again.”

 

“I don’t need your help,” came the bitter reply, along with a swat at his hand that actually hurt some, the metal jarring his knuckles. “Get _off me_ ; I’m free of my _vows_ and I’m going to _celebrate_.”

 

He tightened his grip on Jaime’s wrist, and gave the man a shove hard enough to send him sprawling backwards onto the bed, reeling. Before he could recover, Bronn pinned his ankle with a well placed knee, and pressed Jaime’s good hand into the mattress. As much as the idea of bedding Jaime in this state repulsed Bronn, he knew there were plenty of men in the inn downstairs who would not hesitate, and the idea burned in his chest.

 

“You’re not leaving this room until you’re sober. Don’t bother trying.” They had both sparred together long enough to know that the Jaime that had returned from the Battle of the Whispering Wood did not have the strength to win that fight.

 

Though, had Jaime made more use of the other techniques he apparently knew, Bronn might have had a little more hope for his training. “Then let’s celebrate here,” he suggested, jackknifing from anger to seduction in the heartbeat it took for Jaime to arch up to meet Bronn’s lips again. 

 

His teeth caught his lip as Bronn shoved him down again, and the sellsword huffed an exasperated breath at the man. “Gods, you’ve honestly never been told no in your fuckin’ life, have you?”

 

“No,” he replied, sweetly, and pressed his thigh between Bronn’s legs, It was the limit of his movement in that moment, but evidently the man intended to take advantage of every tool at his disposal to get what he wanted. Bronn moved back a little, but couldn’t go far- he wasn’t sure how he was ending up the one trapped. “I can tell you want it- I can _feel_ you want it,” he murmured, grinding against the growing hardness as best as he could manage.

 

Bronn had to wonder where he’d learned this. As much as it was not a true surprise that Jaime had an interest in men- Bronn knew the man better than most- there had been no rumours that the sellsword had heard to suggest it before today, and stories of a conquest like that were unlikely to be kept quiet. Wherever it had come from, Jaime was _good_ , and frankly the man was starting to test Bronn’s control. He sucked a shallow breath, and had to stop himself as he naturally began to press back against Jaime, biting his lip.

 

“Nice try, princess. Try again when you’re sober.”

 

Jaime let out a whine of frustration and flopped back onto the bed, his golden hair putting the faded, worn covers to shame. “If you’re not gonna give me what I want, get _off_ me.”

 

Bronn shook his head. “I’ve already told you, it’s not happening. You’re staying right here until I know you won’t do anything stupid. Well,” Bronn paused, and laughed. “At least until you’re in a fit fuckin’ state to make a stupid decision for yourself.”

 

Finally getting the message that he would not be getting what he wanted tonight, the fight went out of Jaime, and his expression settled on sour and tired. He turned his face away in what Bronn would term a signature Jaime Lannister sulk, and huffed. “You know the offer won’t be on the table tomorrow,” he informed him, haughty as was possible when his consonants weren’t quite as sharp as they ought to be.

 

“Exactly,” Bronn replied, with finality. Jaime did not look back at him, and the sellsword was satisfied enough with that to release the man’s wrist and get up from the bed. 

 

Jaime didn’t move, glaring resolutely at the wall with his jaw set. Good enough, Bronn figured. He sighed and left the room, feet blocking out the thin light that slipped through the crack under the door as Bronn settled in for the night watch. There was little noise from within the room, bar for the heavier breathing of sleep a short while later. Bronn listened as he kept his watch, careful not to let the gentle sounds guide him towards slumber himself. He’d done the right thing, he knew that- and it was just as dissatisfying as ever.


	2. upon a road less travelled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a sellsword and a disavowed knight avoid a (figurative) elephant with limited success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not be fooled into thinking that there's actual plot here- I assure you it's all just foreplay to the pwp I'm trying to write.

In the early hours, when the tavern had emptied and Bronn had heard the barkeep lock the front doors, he managed to catch a little sleep, settled against the doorframe with his hand ready on his blade should he need to rouse and act quickly. But no one approached, and what disturbed Bronn was in fact the door being pulled inwards, nearly sending the man tumbling into a very disgruntled Jaime Lannister.

 

His eyes swept over Bronn without ever meeting his gaze, and he stepped past the man without a word. Bronn let out a single breath of a laugh as he watched the highborn trot down the stairs with a definitely haughtiness that made it all the sweeter to imagine how badly his head must hurt now the drunkenness had faded. He followed, straightening his jacket and stowing his dagger.

 

Jaime had already found himself a table and had his elbows upon it, head braced in his hands. He didn’t look up when Bronn sat down opposite him, but the sellsword spent too much time watching the body language of others not to notice him stiffen.

 

“Reckon that head of yours must be feeling pretty god awful right now, ‘m I wrong?” He smirked, and signalled the barkeep’s daughter. He’d already put in his order for whatever food she had that was hot and hearty, as well as a pitcher of water before Jaime spoke up, brittle and testy.

 

“I’d tell you if I wanted food. I’m not hungry.”

 

“Nah, but yer empty stomach can’t be helping ya, state you were in last night.” He meant it as a gentle jibe, but Jaime took it as anything but, raising his head to glare at Bronn.

 

“Don’t. Just _don’t._ ” Bronn noted with interest the pink pricks of colour in his cheeks, and scoffed lightly at the ridiculousness that was Jaime fucking Lannister.

 

He learned across the table a little, conspiratorial, but spoke just as loudly as though he’d not bothered. “I don’t remember you saying _that_ yesterday, princess. Seem to recall a very different request from those lips. Demand, more like.” The sellsword had spent the night on a cold floor rather than a soft bed, sporting a rather indignant erection and only the hollow victory of his _morality_ to keep him warm. He felt he was owed the privilege of rubbing Jaime’s face in it this morning.

 

“ _Shut up_ ,” Jaime hissed at him, eyes darting about the room. It was odd in a lot of ways to find that very little attention was being paid to the two of them- he was used to seeing all eyes turn to him when he walked into a room, enduring the inevitable mutterings of his other name, watching the way men’s expressions would shift as they sized him up. This morning, everyone seemed to have more pressing concerns than him. Perhaps no one could recognise him any more- life on the road wasn’t kind, even though it had been a few days, and he looked most unlike the tourney-winning, king-killing gold cloak most people knew. Or perhaps just no one gave a shit about a one-handed man with no family. He was sure his father would be pleased to have been proven right, again.

 

Bronn rolled his eyes and shook his head, roughly shoving a cup of water at ale once the serving girl poured it. “Drink up. I can’t deal with you being a fucking misery all day today.” Not to mention that Bronn was keen to hit the road again, the sooner the better. Jaime wouldn’t talk much about how he’d left Kingslanding, and that didn’t so much worry Bronn as it put him on edge. He wasn’t a nervous man, but he’d have liked to know if he should be expecting to find the crown’s armies on their tail.

 

 

They lapsed into silence, but only for a time. Jaime had never been able to bear it for long, and when it felt as though the conversations of the other patrons of the inn had all but faded to nothing and his own thoughts were blaring in his head, he spoke abruptly, as though unable to contain himself a moment longer. “You must know, I would never have behaved like that were it not for being drunk,” he wheedled, and might have said something else, had he not seen the expression on Bronn’s face, which was somewhere between disgustingly smug and exasperated ways only Jaime could facilitate.

 

“I fucking know _that_ , cunt. And you’re _welcome_ ,” he said to the thanks Jaime hadn’t given. “Plenty of men wouldn’t have been so gentlemanlike. Can’t promise I’ll be so good next time.”

 

“There won’t be a next time,” Jaime replied, a little too quick, and Bronn just laughed and shook his head.

 

“Course not,” he said, humouring him, and making sure Jaime knew that by his tone- that colour popped back up again and Bronn wondered if Jaime knew how easily his finely featured face could be read. Considering he’d spent his life under the scrutiny of regents of one form or another, he would have expected more subtlety. It was as though he thought Bronn couldn’t see where his gaze travelled, the way it lingered on his lips whenever he spoke. The silly cunt.

 

Once their food arrived, the conversation was replaced by the sounds of eating- from Bronn almost entirely, since Jaime had grown up with a septa who rapped his knuckles with a switch enough times to instil proper table manners- and then they were done and Bronn was on his feet, getting ready to leave. He dug some coins out of a purse and left them on the table for the serving girl. He hadn’t counted, but then, it wasn’t his money.

 

* 

 

“You figured out where we’re going yet?” he asked, as they passed a sign for Pinkmaiden, and Jaime barely even spared it a glance.

 

“North.”

 

“It’s a big fucking kingdom, princess.”

 

“By the gods- I _know_ that, Bronn!” Jaime replied, irritably, and finally gave Bronn the true answer to his question- he didn’t know. It didn’t really matter to Bronn particularly where they went- the money was still flowing in for now, though the promises of castles had stopped- but it did concern him that Jaime didn’t have some kind of a plan. The last time Jaime had acted on impulse, he’d ended up dragging the bloody fool out of a lake after saving him from a gods-be-good _dragon_.

 

He’d told himself that that was where he drew the line. But the word coming from the North promised far worse lie ahead, and he was still at Jaime’s side. Fucking Lannisters.

 

“Well, wherever we’re going, we need to make camp soon. Not bloody likely to find an inn any time soon if we keep heading down this road.” A shame, really- Bronn was by no means precious about where he laid his head down, but he’d gotten used to a certain amount of luxury in the employ of the Lannisters, and he’d murder for a hot meal and a warm bed after a few nights on the road. In fairness, he’d murder for a lot less.

 

Jaime didn’t seem to be listening to him- his mind was elsewhere. Bronn couldn’t follow him there, but he could trace his line of sight.

 

Keeping off the Kingsroad meant taking a far less than direct route towards the North, on little-used pathways that had starved off even thieves by their lack of thoroughfare, the terrain rough without the pounding of hooves and feet and wheels to grind it down. There seemed almost no logic to them; Bronn kept checking the sky to make sure they hadn’t gotten turned around, and was surprised more than once to find a sign post pointing towards an unexpected place.

 

So too, it seemed, was Jaime, who’d stopped riding at a wonky post that told them to take the left fork for the Golden Tooth. Bronn pulled back on his reigns to slow beside him. “Keep going that way, pretty soon you get to the Rock, yeah?” he stated, reading the other man’s face easily. “No one’s holding it no more, ain’t that right? We could head that way.”

 

“No,” Jaime’s voice was soft, strained. He nudged his horse’s flank and turned right. “That’s a waste of time. And Cersei may be expecting it.” They’d planned the bluff together, after all, and it had executed exactly as planned, leaving the only true home Jaime had ever known defenceless and abandoned. He didn’t want to see it, like that, and he didn’t want Casterly Rock, once his proud ancestral home, to see him as he was now either. Better to keep on moving, lest his own doubt catch up to him.

 

Bronn followed and fell into stride with his companion, pressing onwards down the lonely dirt road until night fell; he had to tell Jaime to stop three times before the man heeded his words. He was clearly exhausted when he dismounted, unsteady on his feet, and didn’t argue with Bronn when he sat him down on a log and unlaced his hand for him. Beneath the leather binding his skin was red raw, and Jaime left out an involuntary sigh of relief when he was unburdened.

 

Soon, without any help from the highborn, the two rabbits were roasting over an open fire that Bronn was tending, and Jaime’s face had fallen into that far away look again as he stared into the flames. Eventually he murmured, “What do you think of her? The Targaryen girl.”

 

A little taken aback, Bronn blinked. “The one that nearly killed the both of us, with a fucking dragon no less?” Being that he was not an idiot, and could clearly see what Jaime was driving at, he added, “Like her more than your sister, that’s for sure.”

 

Jaime didn’t smile, but then, that wasn’t surprising. The flames danced in his glassy eyes. “I killed her father.”

 

“I’ve killed a lotta people’s fathers. And brothers, mothers, the lot of it. You do what you have to to get by. They called him the Mad King; she must know what he was.”

 

“That won’t matter. Not to her.”

 

“So don’t go. You’ve barely left one queen, why are you chomping at the bit to bend your knee for the next one? You don’t need your sword to be pledged every day of your life, Jaime.” A professional rogue, Bronn couldn’t relate to this need to belong, to serve with an honest heart. Before meeting Jaime, he’d thought it was all an act- the highborn lot were always looking for a way to get ahead, and often that meant picking up someone else’s coattails and holding on, but the knight was _infuriatingly_ earnest in his manner. So truly, he wasn’t surprised that this was what Jaime had planned.

 

He didn’t have a good answer for that, so Jaime stayed quiet, weighing his options- more accurately, weighing his luck against his life. The night grew cold around them, and even with hot food in his belly, Jaime was soon shivering. He could have moved closer to the fire but no, he couldn’t do that at all.

 

“Come on, I’m sick of listening to your teeth chatter.” And there was a blanket around his shoulders and the warmth of Bronn’s body against his side, and Jaime didn’t fuss about sitting this close to another man who’d not bathed in days because it was _nice_. Needed.

 

He’d kept a more normal distance from Bronn since that disastrous night at the inn and not let himself think too much about _that_ because it was a quagmire he could not afford to be bogged down in. Now, though, he recalled vividly the bitter ale taste of Bronn’s mouth when he’d stolen a kiss, and the secure, assured strength of his hands when he’d held Jaime down. Now, sober, it was harder to admit to himself how much he’d enjoyed those moments, but it didn’t make it any less true that he had.

 

Jaime had never been very good at living his life for him; he didn’t mind issuing orders, but he did feel more secure when he had an authority to answer to. The same had always gone for his exploits between the sheets, though Cersei had given him little choice in that. His mind wandered briefly to Euron, to whether he would submit to her will as he did, but he pushed that thought away. Neither answer was one a comfort. The thought of that ironborn’s hands, Cersei’s skin flushed, the cant of her hips- no. He couldn’t let himself fall into those thoughts. He’d left Kings Landing and all that came with it behind him.

 

“You know, Lannister, for someone who loves the sound of their own voice, you’re awfully fuckin’ quiet.” Bronn might have thought Jaime was asleep had the man not been so fucking tense that he could feel it with only a shoulder against him. “Shame we’ve not got any wine, that seems to loosen your tongue right up.”

 

He was only hoping to get Jaime to bite back, a little bickering would do the both of them wonders, he felt, but Jaime’s reply came back sullen. “I’m glad you find me so _amusing._ ”

 

Bronn bumped his shoulder lightly, making a go of it. “Oh cheer up, princess, you’ve gotta laugh about it. I ain’t holding nothing against ya.” Unless Jaime stopped paying him, he didn’t mind, and even then a traitorous part of Bronn knew it was only fifty-fifty that that would make a difference at this point.

 

“Yes, ha ha, how hilarious that I made a fool of myself,” he sniped, with a huff. “If we could _not_ linger on my rejection and humiliation that would be _wonderful_ , Blackwater. I’m quite aware that my advances were not appreciated, you needn’t keep bringing it up.”

 

There was enough hurt in his voice to give Bronn pause, and he leaned around a little to get a better look at Jaime’s face. What was intended as gentle ribbing had evidently hit a sorer spot than what he’d realised. He frowned. “Jaime, I hope you ain’t stupid enough to think that _that_ ’s what the problem was. You were drunk out of your fucking mind, princess, I weren’t about to fuck anyone in that state.”

 

The flames burned lower as their kindling started to dwindle and Jaime found himself looking sidelong at Bronn, his face turned umber and shadow in the firelight, and within him something _ached_. Perhaps not for Bronn per se, but for something to fill the gnawing emptiness within him that Jaime had felt most of his life.

 

Despite all his of heroics on the battlefield, Jaime did not consider himself a brave man. In war, it was- had been- easy to swing a sword and charge into a fight with the oddly comfortable knowledge that it could all end in an instant if he made a wrong move. In the day to day, though- well, Cersei always chided him for being reckless, but only because he didn’t understand the consequences. Not strictly true, but Jaime had believed it. Words were always far harder for him than weapons.

 

“I’ve not had a drink in days,” he said, an inelegant half a whisper, heart hammering as he stole a glance to see how Bronn would react to that, ready to make a joke of it if needed, to hear a cruel laugh or find himself roughly pushed away. 

 

It didn’t come. Bronn angled himself towards Jaime with eyebrows raised. “Thought you said that was a one-time offer?” His voice was teasing, but also lower, gently edging from cheerful banter to something _else._

 

Jaime met Bronn’s eyes, wide and nervous and begging Bronn to just take the fucking hint and take the decision out of Jaime’s hands, but the sellsword didn’t close the distance. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, fingers of his left hand digging into his own knee with the tension and the beats of silence between them felt like hours.

 

He broke it.

 

“It stands,” was all he managed before further words were negated by Bronn’s mouth and _gods_ , Jaime felt a fool for lingering on the brief kiss he’d managed to snatch from the sellsword in the inn, because it was clear that a Bronn caught unawares had nothing on the man when he knew what he wanted and took it without abandon.

 

He gasped into Bronn’s mouth when he felt a calloused hand slip under his shirt, deftly untying his breeches with an ease that could only have come with a great deal of practise, and Jaime felt the grin as wrapped his fingers around the length of him and found the former Commander of the Kingsguard was already half hard.

 

“ _There_ you are,” Bronn crooned into Jaime’s mouth and gave a couple of slow tugs, which were all it took for the other man to reach full mast, bucking into Bronn’s hand at the moment he pulled it away. Jaime made a noise but the complaint died on his lips when he found himself pushed backwards into the dry leaves, hand pushed above his head by one of Bronn’s. He swore, and the sellsword chuckled, pushing Jame’s breeches down to a tangle at his knees and freeing his own cock.

 

It was not as though Jaime had never seen another man’s cock before. He’d had his share of trysts, both drunk and sober, paying for silence as soon as the act was over. Only Arthur had beat him to the punch, the both of them keeping to their tacit agreement never to speak of what might go on under the blankets on long cold nights, both so far from home. However, he’d never been in this position before, pinned by hands and hips and staring down a not unimpressive example of manhood as though it were the point of a sword. His own arousal was not abated- quite the opposite, in fact.

 

Seeing where his eyes were, Bronn reached to grip Jaime’s chin and tilt his head up to face him, eliciting a lusty whimper from the prone man. “Look good, princess? You ever had a cock inside you before?”

 

Fuck, how was he meant to get intelligible words out when Bronn was talking to him like this? His body was coming alive under Bronn’s hands and he watched the man’s dark eyes take in every moment of it. There was no hiding from those eyes, and though he was still mostly clothed Jaime had never felt more naked. “Not yours,” he answered breathlessly, and squirmed a little as he ached for friction. “Shouldn’t I- roll over?” He didn’t spare even a second’s thought to the indignity of rolling over on the first floor to present himself to Bronn- the part of his mind that worried about things like that could not be heard over the roar in his head.

 

Bronn stroked a thumb across his cheek and chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. Maybe next time. Get these nice and wet for me, princess.” Without further warning, he pushed two fingers into Jaime’s parted lips and didn’t retract them when Jaime coughed in surprise. Allowing himself the luxury of letting go, the blond man complied, and the sinful spectacle of seeing his lips sealed around his fingers while Jaime’s tongue licked at them was enough to draw a groan of pleasure from Bronn, who had thought about this very act for long before that first drunken grope.

 

Satisfied, he withdrew and Jaime caught a breath in the moment he had the chance before he felt the blunt, slippery digits rubbing against him, back and forth and then _in_. The sound he made evidently pleased Bronn, because he pushed in further, with a low growl of, “Let’s hear how much you want it, Jaime.”

 

Jaime did not disappoint, in part because he lacked the capacity to properly modulate his noises when there were two fingers working him open. After a minute or two that passed like hours, he wondered if Bronn was actually trying to _torture_ him, squirming desperately for more, whatever form that took. “Gods, would you- _Bronn_ , please for fuck’s _sake.”_

 

“You don’t ever stop whining, do you,” he laughed, slipping out to give Jaime’s cock another stroke; a cruel kindness and his face showed he knew exactly what he was doing to him. “Don’t stop. Wanna hear you beg for my cock, sweetling.”

 

By reputation alone, Bronn doubted anyone would expect this was how the great Jaime Lannister liked to fuck, but the sellsword had known Jaime long enough now to see that he was crying out for a bit of rough and ready with everything he did. And Jaime responded beautifully to it, evidently unable to contain himself as he moaned, voice high and quavering. “Bronn, _please_ , I’m ready, what in the seven are you _waiting for_?” His thighs lay open, ready to receive him as Jaime arched up, as far as his pinned hand would allow but it was enough to slide his aching cock against Bronn’s. A bead of milky wetness glistened at the tip; Bronn wondered at how long it must have been since Jaime had been touched like this- or perhaps he was always this responsive.

 

In typical fashion, it didn’t seem to occur to Jaime that he was not the only one who wanted to feel Bronn’s cock in his arse, but the other man didn’t see any rush. It was not often that one had the pleasure of watching the fucking Kingslayer squirm and beg to be fucked and it was certainly a moment to savour. “Patience, princess,” he chided, rucking up his shirt higher to get access to more of Jaime’s flushed skin. Next time, he’d get Jaime undressed properly first, and drink in every inch of the body that he all too often hid beneath layers of armour and shame.

 

He bit a hard kiss into the hollow of Jaime’s neck and trailed his lips down his chest, pausing to flick his tongue out to meet a nipple just to see what sound the blond would make, before coming back up to look Jaime dead in the eye, hovering inches above him, with their bodies in alignment but contact sparse. Jaime’s chest rose and fell rapidly under him and his mouth searched for Bronn’s, just out of reach. “ _Please_ ,” he begged, desperation building until it was all his voice was, eyes shining.

 

“Tell me what you want, Jaime,” Bronn growled, the strain of holding back heavy in every word, hand slipping again to his entrance and teasing him open without breaking eye contact for a second.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaime whimpered, biting his lip hard. It had never been like this with Arthur, so intimate and darkly erotic that this act could have been plucked from the dreams Jaime had before he woke flustered and sticky with his own seed. He could barely form the words. “I want- please Bronn, please fuck me, _please_.”

 

He might have expected a snarky comment, further torment, but it didn’t come- there was only the blunt intrusion of something far bigger and far _better_ than Bronn’s fingers and then the noise of his mind was drowned in white hot pleasure. Bronn was taking no prisoners; Jaime took his entire length beautifully, lips parted and eyes unfocussed, but he’d wanted to be fucked and Bronn intended to deliver.

 

He abandoned his grip on Jaime’s wrist (though he wasn’t sure that the other man even noticed) and dug his fingers hard into his hips, tugging Jaime up to meet every thrust while he mouthed intelligible sounds of pleasure. “Gods you’re so fuckin’ good Jaime, so fuckin’ good for me.” Bronn was hardly in the frame of mind to write a great soliloquy himself, but it was clear that the other man enjoyed that sort of talk, because after barely a handful of thrusts and without a bit of attention lavished upon it, Bronn’s own arousal was renewed by the sight of Jaime’s leaking cock spending over the tight plane of his stomach.

 

He had intended to go for longer, but what man could be expected to pace himself when he was treated to such a fucking spectacle. With a grunt and not even the opportunity to have Jaime beg for it- next time, he promised himself- he came hard inside him, and managed only a couple more spent thrusts before he let himself collapse onto Jaime. If the weight of him was crushing him, Jaime made no complaint.

 

The sounds of the forest, interrupted only by their own heavy breathing and the crackle of the fire, settled in around them, and when Bronn had managed to regain enough strength to open his eyes and cock his head to look at Jaime, it was clear he was no longer trying to catch his breath but quite asleep.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to lie to you, I complete forgot which season this fic was supposed to be in when I wrote the second chapter so... it's season 7 now...


End file.
